


Snoozing with the enemy

by diner_drama



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is slut-shaming Shakespeare, Fluff, M/M, angels dining at the Ritz, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 14:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diner_drama/pseuds/diner_drama
Summary: Crowley knocked back the rest of his glass in one go and reached for the bottle again. "Have you ever had sex?""My dear boy!" Aziraphale spluttered. "That's a little forward, don't you think?"Crowley topped up the angel's glass of champagne and watched him patiently."Well, there was Shakespeare of course," he offered."Shakespeare!" Crowley hissed. "That sweet-talking littlebastard. He told me he'd never been with another man.""So you-""Yes, me and every other man in Elizabethan London, apparently."





	Snoozing with the enemy

It was the day after the end of the world, and angels were dining at the Ritz.

"To the world," proposed Crowley, raising his glass.

"To the _world_ ," echoed Aziraphale, with relish. He took a long and indulgent sip of his champagne, a lovely crisp 2004 Pommery Cuvée Brut. 

"Mmm, wonderful almond notes."

"Very citrusy," said Crowley. "We should stock up."

"Gosh," said Aziraphale, leaning back in his chair. "Imagine the things we can get up to now."

"I can't stop imagining them," murmured the demon, taking a sip.

"You know, I used to worry about this? The day they found out just how much I..."

"Yes?"

Feeling giddy with his freedom, Aziraphale reached over the table and rested his hand next to Crowley's so just their little fingers were touching. "How much I love you, dear boy." 

A slow smile was spreading over Crowley's face.

"I knew that one day they would destroy you because of me," the angel continued, "and I was just... well, I was _pissing myself_. Absolutely _pissing myself_. For 6,000 years."

Crowley inched his little finger across Aziraphale's, so they were linked.

"But now it's happened! And it really wasn't so bad. I didn't even get my socks wet."

" _My_ socks."

"Your socks, dear boy," he said fondly. "We don't have to sneak around our warring houses, like in-"

"If you're about to say Romeo and Juliet-"

"I was actually going to say West Side Story."

"Somehow that's worse."

"You really think they'll leave us alone? At least for a little while?"

"I do, angel. There's nothing to worry about, not now."

Aziraphale beamed, and covered Crowley's hand with his own, stroking softly with his thumb. "You know, I've done so many wonderful things throughout the years, but I've always wished..."

With a soft smile, the demon inclined his head. "Me too."

"I've also never had cocaine," said Aziraphale lightly. "Was that one of yours?"

"Oh yes, very popular downstairs, cocaine. Turns people into egotistical wankers, and then all they want to do is get some more of it. Your lot did one of them as well, didn't you?"

"Marijuana," said Aziraphale with fond nostalgia, and a touch of smugness. "Makes them all start giggling and hugging each other, such a beautiful sight. One of my best works, if I do say so myself."

Crowley knocked back the rest of his glass in one go and reached for the bottle again. "Have you ever had sex?"

"My dear boy!" Aziraphale spluttered. "That's a little forward, don't you think?"

Crowley topped up the angel's glass of champagne and watched him patiently.

"Well, there was Shakespeare of course," he offered. 

"Shakespeare!" Crowley hissed. "That sweet-talking little _bastard_. He told me he'd never been with another man."

"So you-"

"Yes, me and every other man in Elizabethan London, apparently."

Sipping his drink delicately, the angel thought back to the few partners he'd had over the years. Sexual contact was of course not strictly necessary for a celestial being - but then neither was caviar, and he'd indulged in both when the fancy took him (although never both at once). 

There was that gentleman's club in the 19th century, a venerable and very discreet institution where he'd met a number of lovely young men with wolfish smiles and sharp suits, and spent some very pleasant evenings in their company. (There was also a discrete gentlemen's club nearby, but they preferred to keep entirely separate.) 

There was also that _very confusing_ dalliance with Giacomo Casanova in 1751, but the less said about that, the better.

"Oh!" he said suddenly, remembering. "Oscar Wilde!"

"I'm impressed," said Crowley sincerely.

"Nice lad, but he did start getting a little bit strange about things after ten years or so."

"Oh?"

"He seemed very suspicious that I wasn't ageing."

"Do you think that's why he-"

"Well, I wouldn't like to assume."

"Mmm."

Aziraphale pulled the plate of cakes towards him and picked up a fork to make a start on the custard tart. "I suppose you were contractually obliged to tempt the mortal soul with carnal pleasures whenever possible."

"Oh yes, they're very pro that kind of thing down there."

"I remember you getting around Westminster like the gangbusters during that whole Section 28 debacle."

"I got a commendation for that one. And pulled a hamstring."

Crowley had mostly stuck to professional sexual encounters, barring a few musicians (he never could resist a musician). There had been one time in the mid-70s when he'd been pulled over in a lay-by on the A264 near the small Sussex town of Crawley (no relation), idly tinkering with his engine, and a beaming man with kind eyes, a shock of white hair, and a well-pressed beige cardigan had stopped to ask if he needed some help. They'd spent a few weeks in a bed in Paris before Crowley had to get back to business. The guy had definitely reminded him of someone, but he'd never been able to work out who.

"It's amazing how inventive the humans have been in that arena," Aziraphale was saying, with a faraway look in his eyes. "I know the Almighty started them off with the basic mechanics, but some of the _contraptions_ they came up with are just astonishing. Did you ever read the _Kama Sutra_?"

Instead of listening, Crowley was twitching, and concentrating very hard on his napkin.

"I don't suppose you'd-" he started hesitantly. "Would you maybe be _interested_ in-" he tailed off, "exploring the old 'pleasures of the flesh'-" 

Against all the laws of metaphysics, he started to blush.

"With me?" he finished, looking hopefully at his angel out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh Crowley," said Aziraphale, in exactly the same tone of voice he used when someone handed him a slice of cheesecake (which was marginally breathier than the one for Victoria sponge and a trifle deeper than the one for trifle). "Do let's."

\---

Crowley's bed, much like the rest of his flat, was gothic and overdone, with black and red silk sheets, billowing curtains, and intricately carved wooden posts. It wouldn't have looked out of place in the sex dungeon of a particularly extravagant vampire. On a normal day, the sheets would have been immaculately smooth, with plump, untouched pillows and crisp hospital corners.

Today was not a normal day.

Sprawled over the mattress, completely naked apart from a strategically placed blanket and, inexplicably, his bow tie, Aziraphale was trying to catch his breath. Crowley was plastered to every inch of him, his arms snaked around the angel's back, their legs tangled together, chests pressed close enough to share a heartbeat. 

The sheets had come untucked from the corners, pooling in a rumpled mess under their sweaty bodies, and the pillows had mostly ended up on the floor over the course of the evening. From an interior decorating perspective, it simply wouldn't do, but Crowley couldn't bring himself to care.

"That was _exactly_ how I imagined it," said Aziraphale, once he had regained the power of speech. His hands were caressing his demon's arms - giving light, reverent touches as though he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to.

"I love you," said Crowley into his neck. "I've loved you for 6,000 years. I love you so much."

"My dear boy," said Aziraphale, peppering his damp hair with indulgent kisses. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"We should go somewhere," suggested Crowley, drawing himself up to make eye contact. "Get out of London for a bit."

Aziraphale lit up with a smile. "Like a holiday."

"Let's find a little cottage in the countryside. You could read some old dusty books, and I could go and encourage some of the plants."

"Old dusty books?" sniffed Aziraphale. "You really mustn't be so disrespectful to them. I know you like to read."

"I haven't read a book made of paper since _2007_ ," he lied, just to make Aziraphale splutter.

The angel took a moment to regain his composure, then tilted his head, considering. "I've always wanted to try beekeeping."

"Like wossface," said Crowley, with an expansive yawn. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Exactly."

"Let's go tomorrow," Crowley mumbled, snuggling closer and taking a deep sniff. "Inna morning."

"Of course, my love. You know, I might try that 'sleeping' thing you're always going on about."

"S'good."

"I'm sure it is," said Aziraphale, drawing his arms around his demon and settling down. 

That night, Crowley finally got to do something he'd been dreaming of for 6,000 years, and fell asleep wrapped around his angel.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my Good Omens sideblog [on tumblr](https://flamed-like-anything.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The bit about Oscar Wilde was inspired by [this tumblr post](https://thelibrarina.tumblr.com/post/185665495228/okay-so-we-know-crowley-slept-through-most-of-the).


End file.
